


It's Love and Blood and Hate the Same

by Rednaelo



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Aftercare, Blood and Gore, Bloodplay, Dirty Talk, Friends With Benefits, Guro, M/M, Pet Names, Rough Sex, S&M, Sadomasochism, Size Difference, evil robots with fucked up kinks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-17
Updated: 2016-09-17
Packaged: 2018-08-15 11:25:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8054434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rednaelo/pseuds/Rednaelo
Summary: “You’re rather a bad influence for someone trying to break away from their vices,” Tarn chides him with all the sincerity of someone who is planning on sinning again and again.





	It's Love and Blood and Hate the Same

**Author's Note:**

  * For [uglyNicc](https://archiveofourown.org/users/uglyNicc/gifts).



> Heheheheh...wow.  Okay so I kinda got a little carried away with this commission and maybe took it to the next level but YOU KNOW WHAT. I had fun with it.  I really, really enjoyed writing this nastiness.  God, I should do it more often.  This is for the very lovely [Nicc](uglynicc.tumblr.com) who is an angel for giving me the opportunity to write this. It's been a good long while since I wrote something icky <3
> 
> I really hope you like it, Nicc, and don't mind that you might be getting a little more than you bargained for but I really couldn't help myself.  Please feel free to commission or prompt me whenever you like, I would love to share more of this grossness anytime.  It's so good...it's so good.....
> 
> -Bec
> 
> p.s. I gave Vos a face and a mouth because I can never get away from oral play when it comes to the smut I write. NO ONE CAN STOP ME.

It’s not wholly unheard of that when the Decepticon Justice Division does some of their more heavily-involved cullings that the word ‘massacre’ ends up being used by any bystanders who may have been privy to but not victims of the experience.   Most of those times, the accounts are overblown.  Vos himself has caught rumors of a few of them when he’s spent the very-rare opportunity in space station bars or extra-planetary refueling junctions.  They’re ghost stories told among comrades when they’re drunk enough to excuse the looks of horror on their faces.

The tales do their job to help keep the Decepticons in line.  No harm done.  And though ‘massacres’ are usually the exception, not the rule, in this particular case, the exception is the circumstance.

Fifty-four of the List were gathered in one particular bunker on Zekanis-4.  They all knew they were on the List too.  Super-secret Dodge the DJD Club ended up being not so secret when Kaon tapped a stray transmission from a hopeful refugee seeking to make an emergency landing and please-oh-please if they could grant him the asylum he needed to keep himself alive for the rest of forever.

This is a real massacre. 

One that has no survivors to drunkenly slur out over-exaggerated details to any sympathetic audial.  Just silence and five blood-and-gore covered Decepticons who have spent the past three hours playing hunt-catch-torture-kill with fifty-four cornered rats with nowhere to run.  Vos finds his last victim attempting to make a run for it and pounces on him without even thinking, punching him though the spark and then sitting on his chest while his body grays.

“Good work, then,” Helex says as he passes Vos by, leaving mud behind with the amount of blood that’s dripping from his legs, each footprint turning the dust into a wet stamp.  Tesarus and Kaon follow behind, discussing their respective for rooting targets out of hiding, flinging gore from their hands as they go.  Kaon wipes the back of his hand over his mouth and leaves a smear that he chases with his tongue.

Vos lets them leave without him, staring down into the hole that he put into this last unlucky one.  His hand pulls from the place where he punctured and his knuckles are scraped, spots of pink blood dotting the plates of his digits. 

The planet’s nighttime is beginning to shrink away with the dawn and the light cast has a shadow cutting sharply over the corpse between Vos’ thighs.  He puts both his hands on the wound he opened and begins peeling back the plating.   

 It’s tough work but it’s an old job.  Vos has the deftness to pluck armor plates away with the short blade he keeps and it tears easily through dermamesh and framework alike.  His spark is spinning like an engine turbine, the flush present at the back of his neck while he bares the wretch’s internals.  They’ve come to a halt but the surge of pink blood is still fresh.  Vos’ fans click on and he slowly, so slowly, presses his hands into the viscera.  Something pops under his weight and blood pools around his fingers.  Vos closes his fists and starts tugging.

Oh, this will do just fine.  And if he waits patiently….

“Honestly, when I think you have reached the boundary of depravity….”

Tarn is the cleanest of their rather blood-soaked company but that doesn’t mean much when taking into account that the others are rather coated in the stuff.  He stands a few paces away with a pretty splash across his mask and telltale streaks marking his chassis.  His hands work an oilcloth over one another and come out black as black ever was.  The cloth itself is one tight squeeze from dripping which only lends evidence to how Tarn must’ve been considerably dirtied before he made his appearance.

Vos makes a soft chitter-hiss of amusement and continues harvesting freely-bleeding internals from his quarry, cradling the blood-soaked machinery in his arms like some bounty to squander.

“Just what are you planning to do with all of that offal, Vos?” Tarn hums at him and there’s no mistaking the particular resonance that his vocalizer has taken up; it shivers all the way up Vos’ spinal strut before plunging back between his pelvic span, the heat widening.  More blood streaks Vos’ arms.  He plucks the traitor’s fuel tank out and when it snaps clean, there’s a spray of bright pink.

“ _The others, they’ve gone?_ ” Vos asks instead of answering.

“They’ve returned to the _Peaceful Tyranny_ ,” Tarn says.  There’s blood dripping down Vos’ body, gathering in rivulets along his legs as the clutch of offal in his arms grows.

“ _Then the open air is ours._ ” 

Vos turns to face his leader and his smile is pulling wide – unseen – behind his mask.  He’s sure it’s obvious in his optics, though; he can see it in the way that Tarn’s arms are beginning to relax and how he’s hyperfocused on the collection of innards Vos is cradling. 

“ _Want to see something ugly?_ ” Vos whispers to him and Tarn’s frame is wracked with the effort of keeping his shudder contained.  He follows Vos’ hand like it will bear the means of his destruction if he turns away for even a moment.  And Vos obligingly plants his foot into the chasm of their last kill’s hollowed body, snapping the spinal strut and soaking his leg with blood.  His fingers pluck the soft tubing of a disemboweled energon filter and drag it.  Slowly, slowly, down his pink-slicked abdominals – Tarn’s ventilation hitches, he takes half a step forward – Vos smears and squeezes and a fresh flood gushes between his digits. 

The perfume of this fetish is fetid and burnt but familiar in the way that they have spent too many centuries cauterizing wounds and cutting out mutilations.  The turning point happened somewhere along the way and has gone on long enough that now, when Vos lets his interface panel snap open, his spike extends with the sound and the pearlescent slip of lubricant adds its sweet fragrance to the rot.  He caresses the lips of his valve with trembling fingers and the insides of the poor fuck he just murdered.  Pre drips from his spike and Vos hisses as his spies the seep of fluids threatening to spill from Tarn’s panel, still locked tight. 

“You’ll catch something someday, doing this,” Tarn scolds him with a voice meant to seduce him and Vos rolls his hips against his hand, tightening his grip on his armful of guts and wringing more blood down his front.  It runs warmly down articulations and gathers at his valve to drip onto the dust beneath him.  Tarn is there, cradling Vos’ cheek in one great hand, thumbing at the flecks of pink while Vos sweetly sighs and lets Tarn tug at his wrist so he’ll drop what he’s gathered.  The parts fall away, splattering against Tarn’s knee and thigh before hitting the ground.

“Tsk.”  The scoff makes Vos tongue at his lips and just to tease, he leaves off his playing, lets his other hand free – the last organ slipping out of grasp – so he can smear blood and cum along the inside of Tarn’s thigh. 

“ _Just a little longer_ ,” Vos tempts him.

“Not this time, vicious,” Tarn says, ever the temperate indulger.  Vos snaps his dentae together loudly enough to be heard; Tarn just chuckles and takes both of Vos’ hands in one hand, pulling him along like he’s a doll.  “Washracks.  You’re filthy.”

“ _Then next time,_ ” Vos promises him, and relishes the way he’s being handled.  Tarn’s control is slipping around the edges and it comes out with the reckless way that Tarn is dragging him into the ship and how he’s squeezing Vos’ hands together so tightly that his wrists are cutting into each other.  It hurts but it’s a dear hurt, like a familiar scar or a kinked wire from being fucked in an adventurous position.

He’s leaving tracks of pink like a little trail to be followed by anyone who finds it, spike still out and drooling, laughing.  Laughing with his head thrown back, giddy and wet and wishing that Tarn would forget his backwards propriety and just pin him to the wall and _fuck_ him.  But no, he knows this song and he’ll get versed in fingering – cleaned out and made pretty again – and then he’ll be rewarded when Tarn is done denying himself.

The washracks are large.  All of the ones aboard the ship have to be sizeable enough to fit mechs of Tarn’s and Helex’s and Tesarus’ size at any given moment.  Pristine and efficient.  Tarn throws Vos beneath one of the showerheads and turns it on and Vos smears his hands up through the mess on his body like he can make it cling to his plating instead of let it wash away.  He doesn’t get a moment of space before Tarn is pressing all around him, scrubbing with his own hands.  Black fingers wipe and rub at the saturated spots of blood, lifting up stains while Tarn’s whole body lowers.  He kneels and Vos gasps when Tarn hauls his legs up, pinning him, and pressing his mask against the spread of Vos’ valve.

“You’ve gotten blood inside you,” Tarn murmurs, and the mask vibrates against Vos’ external node.  He thrashes, useless in the heavy hands of his lover.

“ _One day I’ll get you to lick it out,_ ” Vos tells him.  Then his words break over a moan that sounds like a blade scratching along glass, Tarn humming at just the right frequency to make the metal of his mask buzz at a punishing tease.

“I’m interested to see how you might go about that,” Tarn says after a moment of torture.  Vos is three seconds from his overload and plastered wetly to the wall.  His hands scrabble against Tarn’s shoulders, pulling and shoving, and he wriggles in the hold that supports him.  Tarn lets him down, stroking at his plating as Vos slips to his knees and then tucks himself underneath Tarn’s body.  He pulls his mask away and tosses it aside, the metal skidding along the slick tiles and the sound like a sacrament discarded.  Tarn might open his mouth to chide him but lets out a sweet noise instead while Vos pries at his panel, lapping at bloodstains.  “You really are a nasty thing.”

“ _You’re really leaking through your seams watching a nasty thing like me,_ ” Vos informs him, the words a sneaking whisper beneath the constant rain of the solvents. 

“Your spike was out,” Tarn argues.  “Your arousal is compelling.”

“ _Why don’t you try compelling me a little, then?_ ” Vos says, fingers a tickling tease around the edges of Tarn’s interface panel.  His tongue is a might more convincing but Tarn just shudders through it.  His hips press down but the panel stays shut.

“I came here to clean up your shameful mess,” Tarn says, like it’s all Vos’ fault that he can’t just pop his panel and let Vos at him.  “If you’ll stop distracting me so….” 

Vos laughs and wraps his lips around the lip of the plating.  The angle makes his neck bend uncomfortably but Tarn’s hands are reaching for him, petting him, pulling him, pressing him closer, and it all has his struts shaking.  He lets himself be maneuvered back against the wall and Tarn’s optics blaze at him, red and surging.  Vos licks his lips again.  The he reaches out and tucks his fingers under the lip of Tarn’s mask.  He doesn’t tug but just stands there, still, with the solvent streaming down.  The blood’s all washed away.

Tarn is waiting there, kneeling and thinking and Vos doesn’t have enough patience or self-control for this now.  Not when they’ve been playing this game for so long.  He bares his dentae in a smile and then snaps them hard over his own glossa.  Blood streams from his wantonly open mouth like a fountain.  It spills down his neck and whispers away in the shower before it can make too much of a mess on his chestplates.  It stings, it aches so….  Vos’ spike throbs and his valve lips plump up, swelling, as Tarn finally lifts away his own mask and his naked arousal encompasses Vos like it wants to strangle him.

“If you’re willing to go to these lengths,” Tarn confesses to him in a hungry whisper, “then you should let me do the biting.”  But he wraps his lips around Vos’ bleeding tongue and takes his offering nonetheless.  What arm isn’t wrapped around Vos’ body slides beneath him and thick fingers spread , press into the slickness of Vos’ valve.

It’s not a kiss so much as it might be a mauling and if Vos had lost his complete sense of self-preservation in favor of this fetish, he might let Tarn rip the glossa right out of his head.  For how little his features ever see the light of day, even when he _does_ take the mask off, Vos would rather keep his tongue.  Thought maybe next time, he’ll cut one out of another List victim and he and Tarn can pass it back and forth between their lips like a secret.  He leaks around the harsh stretch of Tarn’s fingers and groans with the thought. 

They do part and Tarn spits blood onto the floor, pulling his fingers out.

They go instead to Vos’ throat and he pins him to the wall, kicking his legs open to seat his spike deep inside his valve with barely a click of his interface panel to warn Vos that it was coming.  Vos cries out, held just so the points of his pedes are barely in contact with the wet floor of the washrack, held by his neck and hooked onto Tarn’s spike like some buymech. 

His valve squeezes down and he cries out as overload kicks him over the edge.  Tarn isn’t kind.  His hips thrust and pound and Vos screams through it, every aftershock drawn out with a gurgle of blood harmonizing to the moans.  It’s cruel and ruthless and Vos is pretty sure Tarn just fucked him into another orgasm and that has him clawing after his lost breath.  Anatomically, taking Tarn to the root is nearing on the grossly morbid but Vos glances down with what little breadth he has to look and can see his own valve stretched out to take that girth.  His optics roll back into his head and he hisses again as Tarn runs a soft finger against his external node, right at the base of his spike.

“What pleases you more?” Tarn asks, still annoyingly dignified even when he’s wrecking Vos’ whole body, only speaking when he slows his thrusts so his passion doesn’t hitch any of his perfect words.  “Slathering yourself in gore or letting me defile you as I please?”

Vos laughs because he’s manic with the high, blood running hot through his body and into his mouth and transfluid washed down the drain but there’s plenty more where that came from.

“ _Making you want to defile me because I slather myself in gore,_ ” he cackles. 

Tarn’s kiss is almost sweet but the way his fingers tighten around Vos’ throat has his spike twitching.  In all honesty, the depravity is nice but it’s nicer when it’s shared.  Especially with someone as seemingly uptight as Tarn.  Their leader is just as wicked as any of them.  It’s a delight just to remind him to indulge in it sometimes.  Who’s there to stop them?

Vos reaches with his useless hands and pets and strokes at Tarn’s cheeks, his chest and his shoulders, running fingertips along the cannons at his back, clenching his valve down rhythmically to coax him deeper.  Deeper and deeper, wanting to milk every drop of transfluid that he can get, letting it mingle with whatever blood might be leftover. 

“ _It feels good,_ ” Vos tells Tarn.  “ _It feels good because it’s disgusting and you like it._ ” 

Tarn’s monstrous hand slips away from Vos’ neck and he grips him had by the hips, slamming him to the wall again so he can fuck him like he’s trying to prove a point.   Vos chokes on his moans and sighs.  He’s gonna have bruised-up internals by tomorrow.  It’s gonna ache when he walks.  Feels too damn good to care.  He wraps one hand around his spike and tugs, letting the other one slip down low so he can shove as much of his hand into Tarn’s valve as possible. 

“ _Want me to cram someone’s pump up here next time?_ ” Vos asks, kneading at the hot, wet walls of him, dislodging a couple times because he’s still the one getting fucked but his next overload is further away than the one he can see clearly crawling up Tarn’s spine.  It’s fogging out with his every breath and his eyes are like coals.  “ _I’ll fuck you with it and suck the blood off your node.”_

“Nnghh….”  The noise is undignified and Vos hisses in approval, sucking the sound right out of Tarn’s mouth.  He drinks his gasps down when Tarn comes and rolls and rotates his hips to draw out every shameful sigh and drooling moan.  “Hedonist,” Tarn whispers like it’s his saving grace and Vos gives him a bloody kiss on either cheek. 

When Tarn withdraws, there’s a slick slop of transfluid spilling out.  So much of it, but Vos loves it and he goes strutless and falls with his knees in that puddle, the shower still spraying away all evidence of their mess together.

Tarn washes him.  Gently now, all tucked away and closed up again, mask back on.  His hands are perfunctory  and diligent and it may not be the most soothing treatment but Vos let’s himself be turned and lifted and stretched and purrs through it all, chittering bits of sentences at Tarn when he hears him humming and singing under his breath.  Tarn sits Vos on his thigh and lets him rut off the last overload he had building up charge.  They have a quick rinse and then he shuts the shower off.

When Vos opens his eyes, Tarn has Vos’ mask cupped carefully in his palm, offering it with a burgundy glow to his optics.

“You’re rather a bad influence for someone trying to break away from their vices,” Tarn chides him with all the sincerity of someone who is planning on sinning again and again.  Vos just sniggers and pops his mask back into place, wobbling to his feet while Tarn creaks up from his knees. 

“ _There’s no more hunting for a while,_ ” Vos says as he yanks one of the drying cloths from its place on the wallhooks and wipes the lingering solvent away.  His parts are _twinging_ on the inside but it’s a good pinch.  It’s the kind of sore he can enjoy because he got it from a good, thorough fucking.  “ _You can break away from it for that long and then pick it up again when the time comes._ ”

“Not precisely my point, vicious,” Tarn says gently, though his words are full of musical laughter and he takes the drying cloth that Vos offers him and uses it until it’s just a sopping heap on the floor.  “If you’d like, we can adjourn to my quarters for a cube together.  I have reports to complete on our work today but you may rest in my berth.”

Vos purrs at him again and can’t help the swing of his hips when he opens the washrack doors and takes his measured steps down the hallway.  It’s one part to entice and one part to keep a quick pace from aggravating the pull in his internals. 

“ _As if I would refuse you_ ,” Vos says and they’re both smiling behind their masks.  They walk a congenial distance from each other and Tarn keys in the code to open his rooms.  Vos goes right to the berth and picks his favorite spot, tucked right up in the corner.  They drink together in companionable silence.  Vos wonders what it would take to convince Tarn to cut him open and rut on his exposed machinery.

Small steps….  He’ll bring it up when they’ve got better medical equipment to deal with the aftermath.  And when Tarn stops pretending that their repeated encounters after bloody happenings like today is something as inane as a ‘vice’.  Vos is nothing if not patient. 

He lets Tarn stroke his cheek with a broad thumb and reaches back to run his fingers gently against the bend of Tarn’s elbow.  Then Tarn goes to his desk and takes Vos’ empty cube with him and sets about his work.  The _Peaceful Tyranny_ hums with its familiar drone and Vos closes his optics to its lullaby.  Tomorrow he’ll be sore like he was run through – he was, wasn’t he? All the way through – but before then, he knows Tarn will wake him up when his work’s completed for another shared interface.  It’ll be a sultry and utterly ordinary sort of coupling and Tarn will soothe at him because he always counters his brutality with gentility.

Might not be as sordid but Vos will count it among his guilty pleasures nonetheless. 


End file.
